All fairy tales should end with hills

Once upon a time, if you were lucky enough while running in Atlanta, you could hear the fabled chanting of a runner in red. Most often his voice would be heard on one of the many inclines in the city among the hills. Sometimes you had to listen closely for that mumbling mantra. Other times it could be heard as a barbaric yawp emanating from the peaks of the dogwood city. Regardless of when it was heard the hills would quake with fear because they knew they would be conquered by the man in red.

Then one day an evil spell was cast upon our fearless climber. He was stricken with such pain in his hip that ascending hills became a practicum in self torture and alas the callings of the man in red were heard no more. After months of despair filled with envy of every runner seen climbing these well-traveled routes, the man is red vowed to return to the hills one day.

That day came sooner than I expected. Things have progressed much better than I ever thought it would. I have had to reign myself in so that I don’t overdo it and find myself sidelined again. So after I tested out running on a treadmill and then running on flat ground I challenged myself with some small rolling hills. But, not an easy run with rolling hills. No, I have to go and make it into a brick work out of this work out. I pushed the pace for 15 miles on the bike on mostly rollers and then hopped off, changed my shoes and headed out on some of the same hills. The road started downhill which I always find harder than going uphill. This is even truer now that as I feel the extra pounding of going down I worry that each step will lead to a problem with my hip. So I try to land on my toes and take it slowly. Finally before me is the first uphill back. I would like to say I charged up it, but it was more like a plod. It felt draining, but hell if I am going to walk it. Where is the exhilaration? Is that it for my days of charging up hills? Will I now be one of those runners who are faster on the downhill than on the uphill?

Remembering Aristotle who said,” one swallow does not a summer make.” I adapted his thought and said to myself one hill does not an Atlanta run make. There are always more. I do not have back the power I once had in my legs, and I am only just restarting running but with the second hill I was back to my choppy Billy goat stride, hoofing it up the hill. By the last hill if I listened closely I could hear the distant echo of a challenge to all things inclined.

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